Smoking
by DrainBamage
Summary: It had seemed like the health conscious good idea three weeks ago. It had seemed like a great suggestion. Seemed being the operative term. Oneshot following 'On and Off.' Norman/Sean


**Title**: Smoking

**Author**: drainbamage954

**Rating**: NC-17

**Fandom**: The Boondock Saints, Norman Reedus/Sean Patrick Flanery

**Genre**: PWP, General, Romance

**Wordcount**: 7,377

**Warnings**: Swearing and yaoi (boyxboy)

**Summary**: It had seemed like the health conscious good idea three weeks ago. It had seemed like a great suggestion. Seemed being the operative term. Oneshot following 'On and Off.' Norman/Sean

**Disclaimer**: I do not own The Boondock Saints nor do I own the boys. Troy owns BDS and the boys own themselves.... I don't think they'd approve of me owning them. Plus, Mingus would be sad if I took his dad from him.

**Notes**: Set after 'On and Off' and before 'It's Ethics' I still have to figure out a name for this series. D: ! Special thanks to PurpleRanger for being my beta who's amazing in every way shape and form. Everyone should also love her because she's sick and needs the love. *PurpleRanger!love.*

* * *

Smoking-

I'm what Norman would call 'health conscious.'

More like I actually try to take care of myself whereas he could care less about physical health. It's not like it bothers me all that much. He doesn't try to interfere with my habits, the exercising and the food preferences, and I don't make him work out with me or anything like that.

The only thing I really have a problem with is his whole 'smoking myself to an early death' sort of thing. Granted, I'm smoking a bit but it's just for the film.

Because Connor smokes, Sean smokes.

On set and during scenes.

That's about it.

I'm not a fucking chimney all other times.

Unlike a certain dark haired costar of mine who's always fumbling for his pack of Marlboros and a lighter that's always half empty and clicking away for that small flame. The fact that he'll most likely get cancer or some other disease, develop a nasty grating voice and have teeth the same color as bananas doesn't seem to factor into his choice at all. His trailer, now a month old, already smells of smoke and cigarettes.

"You're a walking case of emphysema," I say one day, walking back from the make up trailer, with him beside me, and lighting a new cancer stick.

He just grins at me, lips wrapped around that damn thing. "Can't help it," he says, shrugging slightly. "I'm addicted." He takes a deep drag and, plucking the thing from his mouth, exhales, a plume of smoke spewing from his lungs into the open air. Shrugging, he flashes me that cocky smirk of his. "Not much I can do about it."

I roll my eyes. "You could try to stop," I point out, feeling like a scolding parent.

He raises one of his artistically curved eyebrows at me. "You mean suffer the detoxification of quitting an addictive substance?" he asks, the cigarette subtly burning between his fingertips.

"Can't be that hard," I say, shrugging. "I mean, scientifically, it only takes two weeks for the body to quit addiction. The rest is all mental."

Norman pauses in our walk, making me stop as well. "Are you telling me you want me to quit smoking?" The question seems, to the innocent eye, completely neutral. Between us, it actually holds a lot of power. This would be the first time either of us has asked the other to do something as personal and specific of the other.

I shrug. It's extremely important during these conversations to act normal, as if we're simply having a conversation between friends. Not to let the real significance of this slip out. Like the fact that my shower isn't constantly breaking because of a shitty repair job that has Troy hiring a new repair guy to fix every few days. The repair jobs are fine; it's the tinkering I do afterwards that keeps it breaking.

That has me imposing on Norman for showers.

Really long showers.

"No." Yes, I am, or at least implying health concerns. "I'm telling you that smoking has some long term effects, some of which include the cause of cancer, specifically in the lungs and may cause birth defects in pregnant women." I'm a smoking prevention advertisement on daytime television.

I don't have to wonder if my message has been understood. We both know we're intelligent individuals and both know each other's patterns of speech by now. He knows exactly what I'm saying. Eyes never leaving mine, Norman brings the small white cylinder filled with dried cancerous leaves to his mouth, takes one last drag, and flicks it to the ground, crushing it beneath a shoe as he exhales.

"I'll still have to smoke as Murphy," he points out, blue eyes clear. _Is this really what you want?_

"I have to smoke to be Connor," I say, shrugging as he resumes walking. _I know that. You're not gonna be doing this alone._

"So technically I won't really be quitting," Norman continues his own line, words moving around mine easily like water. _I'll give it a shot._

"It's only during scenes, so technically, that's not recreational smoking." _That's all I'm asking for. _Our words and conversation are like two separate entities, working together and continuing on their own veins. They reflect us in some ways, separate in so many regards and yet twined together, impossibly close.

I've never really smoked in my life, save for the few screen times that the part has required smoking. I'm not friends with a ton of people who have smoked and don't really know anyone who has tried to quit, going through the withdrawl process. I suppose I don't really know the effects of stopping an addiction. The answer was always easy for me. To quit something, you just stop. It's not that hard. Just stop doing it and move on.

At first, as in the first few days or so, nothing really changed. Norman was still Norman, on set and off, active and joking and scatter brained, smoking only when being Murphy. When Troy asked him why he wasn't a walking chimney, he shrugged and said he was quitting because of rising tobacco prices. Troy raised an eyebrow but didn't say anything else.

But that was the first few days. This is three weeks later and I'm beginning to think maybe telling Norman he should quit smoking wasn't such a great idea. A week ago Rocco gave him nicotine patches. The next day, Troy shoved five pieces of nicotine gum in his mouth. Directly.

They both thought they would help.

They did.

While he was on set.

Norman has never been an extremely emotional person. On set and in character, he's amazing, portraying and embodying all forms of human emotion, from anger and depression to fear and joy. Off set and out of character, Norman's just Norman, calm and slightly eccentric. Joking and a little rough around the edges but maintaining that steady and relatively constant plane of emotion which never really wavers from being mostly pleasant.

Even when it's just the two of us, he's never been especially emotional. The most I've seen has been him being extremely eager or passionate, excited when we shove each other around the trailer amid frantic breaths and restless hands.

Three weeks ago, Norman was Norman, not edgy, twitching, and agitated.

Three weeks ago, I said it would be a good idea for him to quit smoking.

Three weeks ago, I had no idea what I was talking about.

"You said it takes the body two weeks to get over an addiction," Norman spit out, sitting slightly hunched on his couch, eyes trained on the carpet and hands picking at each other as I walk into his trailer. The crew doesn't ask anymore as to why I go and visit him now. They think I'm only trying to help him quit. They're all also glad it's not them.

I am trying to help him quit. It's just not as easy as I thought it would be.

I had no idea what I was getting into.

I nod at him, carefully walking up the steps and watching him. "Yeah," I say, setting the small plastic bag I'm carrying on the floor away from me as I softly sit down next to him, not quite touching him but close.

Norman's entire form is tense, his spine rigid in its curve, knee bouncing up and down like a jack hammer. His hands, currently twisting and jerking together, are bright red and almost raw at the fingertips, the nails bitten down to the quick. His face is taught, slightly strained as his eyes are focused on some part of the slightly frayed and faded orange and gray carpet. His hair looks like it hasn't been brushed in days. Something I know is false, considering I watched the make up lady fuss over it this morning and attack his head with a comb.

At my words, his head snaps to the side, those piercing eyes now boring into me. "Then there's something wrong with my body," he says in a slightly clipped tone. "Because it's been three weeks and it's definitely still addicted."

I swallow. Right now, things could go one of two ways. Option one is Norman could get really angry and start ranting, gesturing mostly as he paces around his trailer, wearing a path in the already abused carpet. Option two is he could get extremely down, depressed and self critical, brooding over every small detail in his life and shove an entire pack of nicotine gum in his mouth to shut himself up, chewing frantically before shutting himself in the bathroom to try to 'collect himself.'

I've got the supplies I need for both situations. Band aids, a makeshift first aid kit, and a 6 pack of beer for the first and two packs of gum, a few hair pins, some chocolate, and another 6 pack of beer for the second. I could break into any house I wanted to with how good I've become at picking all the doors he locks himself behind.

"Your body might not still be addicted," I say slowly and carefully, trying not to let anything slip into my voice which could be twisted in any way. "It might just be that your mind is still convinced you need them." I shift slightly, making sure to keep our gaze locked. He hasn't moved at all, his form completely fixed and tense, save for the leg jack hammering into the floor and the hands frantically working a nonexistent Rubix cube. "Plus, the fact that you're still smoking for Murphy probably is making it harder for your system to completely get over it."

Closing my mouth, I'm counting down in my mind, waiting to see which way he'll go. Bad or Bad.

Brace yourself.

Norman blinks, which, I suppose, is progress.

10.

One of his fingers starts to bleed.

9.

Every second, I think his leg moves up 3 times.

8.

Down four times to thump against the ground.

7.

One positive thing is he'll have extremely strong thighs with all that exercise.

6.

His heart rate is slightly accelerated, visible in the vein in his neck which I can see faintly pulsing through his skin.

5.

Another finger cracks and begins to bleed, the blood instantly smeared by another finger swiping over it, his hands an incoherent blur of movement.

4.

Blink once and inhale. Which will you take? There are only two choices.

3.

Will it be door one?

2.

Or door two?

1.

"I hate you," Norman says, voice flat and emotionless, eyes fixed on me.

There's not supposed to be a third door.

I swallow. Though prepared for what I thought is everything, I find I'm not prepared for this. It's been three weeks and thus far, he's never attacked me personally, instead reverting to swing in his emotional whirlwind anywhere but. This could be nasty.

"You hate me," I say, clarifying the statement and waiting, slightly tense, for him to move. Unbidden, a slightly sardonic tone slips into my voice before I can stop it.

Fuck.

Instantly, all movement stops. The leg is frozen, poised up, prepared to rocket back to the floor as his hands are immobile, fingers twined together and complex. I have to remind myself to breathe.

Oh. Fuck.

On the plus side from all this shit that I face on a daily basis from him, his trailer no longer reeks of cigarettes and smoke, the area actually acquiring a gentler smell, resembling limes and cinnamon. Also, he doesn't reek of them. Nor taste of them.

There's always a silver lining, I guess.

Doesn't negate the fact I've just proverbially fucked myself over.

"Yeah," Norman says after swallowing with more calculation than I ever could. "Right about now, I hate you." His mouth never gets that thin. "I hate this." I don't need clarification. "I hate everything." I don't think two 6 packs will be enough.

A second later, I'm on the floor, back hurting and with all the wind knocked out of me, staring up at the taught face of Norman Reedus as he snarls above me, hands fisted in my shirt and teeth bared.

"I fuckin' hate this," he snaps, voice a little louder than usual. "Do you have any idea what this feels like?" He shakes me viciously, jerking me against the orange and gray carpet. "Any idea what it's like to feel like absolute shit all the time everywhere? Do have your skin crawl and burn as you try not to throw up? Do you feel so restless and agitated that you want to tear your face off? Do you have any idea what you're doing to me?!"

The only thing I can do right now is swallow and not move. I have no idea what he needs right now. I'm lost in the mystery of Norman like I so often am. A new mystery as I continue to learn and explore. He's a book that I can't flip to the back of and spoil the ending.

"FUCK!" Norman shouts, slamming me back into the floor before suddenly throwing himself from me, tumbling across the floor of the trailer to slam his back into the couch, knees bent and hands curled in his hair, pulling his chin to his chest. I wait maybe five seconds, trying not to make sudden movements before pushing myself up. "Goddamn fuckin' hell son of a bitch!" Norman snaps from between his arms, fingers tightening in his hair. Two of them are still bleeding.

The only thing I can do is wait. Right now, he's too volatile. Anything I say or do will make it worse.

This is the only time Norman is like this. Within the confines of the trailer, out of sight and away from the others, he unwinds slightly, shedding the smiling face everyone else sees and instead becoming this raw human that few people see. The rest of the cast and crew can feel it though, the tension and edge which has been increasing over the past three weeks, never present on set or camera but just under the surface.

No one sees the volcanic side of Norman that I do at these points. It would be overwhelming in how personal we've become if not for how fucking terrifying it is. I would consider myself lucky that he can show me this if it didn't scare the pants off of me.

After a long successive chant of "fuck" that lasts for about three minutes, Norman finally quiets, breathing deeply with his eyes closed and head still barred between his arms. Then, slowly, as if speed will damage him, he opens up, letting his hands trail from his head and arms drop to his knees, head falling back to rest on the sofa. Steady breaths have his chest moving as I watch.

Quietly, I move from my position to sit, slightly more comfortable but still a small distance away from him.

Slowly, he opens his eyes, the blue not as cold as before but still holding an edge. "You're an ignorant bastard, you know that?" he says, voice soft and low.

"We all have character flaws," I say softly, watching him as he calms slightly, his muscles still tense but not radiating that aura of aggression. "It's what makes us human."

He snorts softly. "You're not human," he says, bringing up a hand to drag over his face. "No human has your energy or obscene health obsession. No human would be able to survive."

Despite myself, I grin at him. My energy has always been something that fascinates and confuses Norman, as have my eating habits. "Well, there goes my cover," I say. "So much for mingling with the human race." I can't help but joke. It's kinda ingrained into my personality at this point.

"Shut up," Norman says sharply, eyes now closed and a frown on his face, his hand still resting on his face, the side not visible to me. I do so. After the first fight where I didn't, I kinda learned my lesson. After a moment, Norman pushes himself up, almost abruptly, and pads over to the small sink by the wall, a makeshift kitchen in all our trailers. Bending down swiftly, he snatches up the bag I brought with me, setting it on the counter, his back to me, and pulling all of the items from it to lay on the counter.

Quietly, I get up as well and stand, not moving from where I am, watching him silently. I can see the tension still present in his body, taught over his broad shoulders as he deftly opens two of the beers, popping two pieces of the gum from their aluminum packaging and taking a few swallows from one of the bottles. The two slightly orange pieces of candy lie innocently on the counter as he braces himself against the counter. I can do nothing but watch him, wait, and, though it's probably not the best time for it, admire him. It's kinda hard not to, especially with him directly before me.

"Frustrated." His voice has me snapping from some sort of trance I've put myself in, eyes snapping from his ass to the back of his head.

"What?" I say, licking slightly dry lips.

He turns around, beer still in hand and face stern, eyes fixed on me. With purpose, he puts the bottle back on the counter and leans back, palms braced on the counter. "I'm frustrated," Norman says simply.

I blink. He's frustrated. Well, that could be interpreted many ways. "Okay."

Norman grabs his beer again, simply holding it and not drinking. "No," he says, eyes boring into mine. "I'm frustrated." He purses his lips. "Extremely frustrated, in all senses of the word." Oh. "I'm frustrated with cigarettes. Myself. My fuckin' body. This whole situation." As he speaks, his eyebrows furrow deeper and deeper, a scowl promoting itself on his features. "You. Me. Everything." He takes a long drink from the bottle, emptying it and tossing it into the sink before grabbing the second one. He pauses for a second, before holding it out to me. "Drink," he says, offering no room for argument.

I raise an eyebrow, wondering where this will lead us before stepping forward and accepting the drink, putting it to my lips and taking a swallow of the amber liquid, never taking my eyes from him. He says nothing, just watches me, not moving. Taking the bottle from my lips, he does nothing, eyes trained on me firmly.

"The gum and patches don't help," Norman says, still unmoving and eyes fixed on me. "Neither does anything else." He watches me as I take another swig of beer. "There's nothing I can substitute to ease the cravings." His eyes follow my tongue as it darts out to catch a few drops of alcohol which have lingered on my lips. "And nothing can stop the pain of withdrawl or stop me from agitatedly twitching."

I raise my eyebrows at this, as if to silently point out at he's not twitching at all right now, his form completely still.

"Shut up," he says shortly, as if reading my thoughts.

"I didn't say anything," I say, taking the bottle from my lips enough to talk before finishing the drink.

"Exactly," Norman says, taking the bottle from me and dropping it in the sink behind him. "You aren't saying anything." He shifts his weight slightly. "You aren't helping. At all."

Okay. That's a bit much. For once, I'm frowning at him. "You're telling the guy who's been coming every day with alcohol, patches, gum, food, and company, sitting through all of your shit and saying nothing when you shit all over him that he's doing nothing? You're telling me that everything I've done for the past three weeks doesn't mean anything to you?" I take a step towards him, feeling anger beginning to really spark in my chest. Fucking hell. "Is that what you're telling me?"

Norman pushes himself off of the counter, so he's no longer leaning against it. "You're the one who caused all of the above, Flanery," Norman says, a taunting and dangerous tone sliding with his voice.

Oh, that little fucker. "You son of a-" But I don't even get to finish because a second later he's slammed into me. Hard. Throwing me to the floor and we're fighting, tooth, nail, pulling hair and jabbing knees. Pull out the stops and that's us. Hell, with all the noise and rolling around the small room of the trailer, crashing into things and slamming into walls, it's a miracle the structure doesn't collapse. This isn't a friendly scrapple, a fight between friends when they piss each other off. This is a full out, try to fuck each other up, full contact brawl.

And I should earn a medal for holding back as much as I am, keeping myself from utilizing my fighting skills to deck him almost instantly, instead fighting him on equal ground, delivering a hit for every one he gives. "Mother Fucker!" he snarls out after a nasty clip to the side, instantly catching me in the face with an elbow. We're both bloody and bruising, injuries going ignored in the adrenalin rush of the fight, the thrill of the battle.

Twenty minutes later finds both of us panting, the trailer completely fucked, blood smeared over our skin and hair extremely mussed, pinned on the carpet and glaring at each other for all we're worth. Somehow, Norman's managed to get me on my back with my teeth gritted and glaring hard, he poised above me pinning my arms and legs in a hold even I don't recognize. We're in a stalemate.

I can't move and neither can he without giving me an opening.

Our breath is hot against each other's skin and, suddenly, with his cigarette free breath brushing over my skin, the press of our bodies, the heat from the fight is doubled. The blood pumping through my veins at a rapid pace is for entirely different reasons. I can feel his breathing change, see the shift in his eyes. I lick my lips once, about to speak.

"Shut up," Norman growls before smashing his mouth against mine with just as much aggression and force as he fought with, body pressing hard into mine, almost painfully so. The contact has me groaning, eyes closing almost instantly as I respond to him, practically shoving my tongue into his mouth forcefully. I want to move, switch positions and wrap my arms around him, but, if anything, his grip on me has intensified, giving me no possibility of touching him save for the contact we already have. That fact has me moaning in frustration and annoyance, dragging his lower lip, which I split earlier, between my teeth and worrying it.

Norman growls, shoving against me roughly and making me wince, the floor already digging uncomfortably into my back and shoulder at the same time a shot of pain twisted pleasure rockets up my system. This is the first time Norman has me pinned completely, the first time I don't have a way to completely switch things around and have him with a pouting scowl beneath me, blue eyes hazed with lust and defeat before I make him arch. The first time I don't have something up my sleeve, that I'm not in control.

And holy fuck is that arousing.

You learn something new about yourself everyday.

Somehow, Norman manages to straddle me in a way that keeps my legs trapped, groin pressed hard against mine in a torturous friction that has me gasping and him snarling into my neck, where he's currently dragging his teeth down tender skin.

"Fuck," I gasp out at he rolls his hips dangerously, the friction almost painful against my trapped erection. "You really meant in all senses of the word when you said you were frustrated." Okay, so I'm not exactly known for saying the best of things at the best of times, but honestly, who can think straight with an extremely sexy and aroused man grinding against you and growling as he does so?

And here I was thinking I had been doing a pretty good job of keeping that frustration in check.

Apparently not.

"Fuck clarification," Norman rasps out, dragging his tongue up the side of my neck to breathe hotly in my ear. Everywhere we touch, cloth the only barrier between burning skin, flares with electricity, shocks going through my nerves and vibrating in my bones. I said it before and I'll say it again, Norman's a goddamn volcanic eruption in human form. Everywhere he touches feels like it could consume me in flame and almost unbearable heat so intoxicating I can barely breathe.

He shifts, moving an arm to shove a hand up my shirt, fingers dragging viciously down my skin and making me moan as they move over the sensitive skin of my ribs. I could flip him, change positions and look down at that pouting scowl and take control. Well, technically I can, now that he's given me some form of mobility. But, realistically, I don't know if I'll be able to with how burnt my skin feels, how shot my nerves and muscles are.

I don't know if I want to.

Fuck what is this?

He still has one hand firmly restraining one arm, my other free limb trapped uncomfortably under my back. Body laid flush against me, legs trapped, all I can do is arch and gasp against him as he growls and bites against my skin, feeling the tension and lust rolling from his skin to drip to mine and spread. The hand on my chest, harshly teasing an extremely sensitive nipple, suddenly jerks, flashing to grab my exposed hip and pull hard, to press me up against him as he grinds down. The action has my mouth open, noise caught in my throat.

God, maybe I shouldn't try to keep this frustration in check.

And, just like that, he's gone, somehow vanished from atop me, leaving my skin still tingling and cold, eyes opening in shock and looking for him.

About a foot away, Norman's scowling, face set and flushed, hands furious as they yank his shirt from him, shoes already toed off. It takes me about a second to react, push myself up from the puddle of lust I have become on his floor, moving over to him in no time to grab his hands, stop them from moving. From doing what my own hands want to do.

Norman's face jerks up to mine, scowl still prominent on his features before he rips his hands from my grip, chest heaving with excitement driven breaths as he pulls me forward harshly by the shirt, slamming his mouth over mine and sucking my tongue into his mouth. Without preamble, he draws back for a second before ripping my shirt over my head; there's a flash of pain as it catches on my ears before he's back, the intensity of his kiss making me lean back slightly, balance already thrown and being pushed farther.

Hands, hot and burning, gripping roughly against the skin of my hips have us jerking around, him pushing me back, feet stumbling and catching against each other as we maneuver across the limited floor space of the trailer. A second later, the backs of my calves hit the couch unexpectedly, causing me to lose what little balance I have and fall, tumbling with him to the already abused couch. Landing with a loud 'Oof!' air once more pushed from my lungs as Norman falls on top of me, and I can hear the couch groan in protest. Norman either doesn't notice or couldn't care less about the welfare of his furniture as, instead of pausing, his movements become more frantic, fingers confused and fumbling at the belt of my jeans.

It's nearly overwhelming, the urgency which this whole situation holds. Overwhelming but so unbelievably hot and fucking fantastic it takes an effort not to just let myself drown in the waves of heat and lust that are beating against my skin with every touch of Norman's skin, his fingers, even his breath. I can barely draw in air fast enough to keep myself from fading, my pulse so rapid it feels like my heart is going to throw itself out of my mouth.

In an effort to help, my own hands scramble their way to Norman's waist, trying to remove his own belt and jeans in record breaking time, trying to make sense of the simple contraption when everything has faded to an incoherent blur of sensation and heat. Norman, forehead pressed against mine as our breaths intermingle, braced above me, finally manages to get my belt loose with a growl, fingers vicious as they tear it from my jeans and hurl it across the room. "Fuck, want you so bad," he rasps out, voice lower than I've ever heard it, gravely in its arousal. The sound has my entire body shivering, breath hitching.

"Likewise," I manage to breathe out; anything beyond one word sentences near impossible in my current state. The sense of victory at finally ripping his belt lose is drowned by the feeling of him shoving my jeans and boxers down my hips, still fastened as they drag harshly over my already desperate erection, the pressure and roughness making me gasp and shudder, back arching in both pleasure and pain. Without thinking, I shove his own pants, boxers included, down in retaliation, getting a sharp grunt and jerk in response.

My world of vision is extremely limited, everything beyond Norman's flushed face and clouded eyes is dimmed, fogged into unimportance. My world only consists of the man above me, his hands dragging along my sides and over my skin, burning their paths into willing flesh. He's beautiful, in a strange, rough, and captivating way. It's a different kind of beauty than that which you would call a sunset or a blooming flower. He's beautiful in the way that a slow violin piece crushes your heart, that a black and white photograph, simple yet captivating, takes your breath away and leaves you in a state of shock. He's beautiful in a way I don't have words to describe. He's beautiful in a way I'm only beginning to understand.

"You're beautiful," I whisper, my almost unbearable lust waning just enough for the words to fall from my lips as one of my hands drifts up to rest against his face. I hadn't meant to say the words, but, now that they were spoken, I don't want to take them back. It's not 'I love you' nor any other generic proclamation, but something more. Something deeper which I realized that first night all those weeks ago, when I watched him crash into a table headfirst. When I thought I was going to lose him.

Norman stills slightly at my words, his eyes flickering for a moment before the harsh movements suddenly become gentler, still bearing the same passion and force, but no longer containing the almost brutal edge to them, instead becoming tender and more powerful in their softness. A simple brush of his fingers to my jaw has the fire already burning in my veins flaring impossibly. Norman says nothing, doesn't have to, as he leans down and gently presses his lips to mine, the kiss tender and more intense than anything we'd shared as of yet.

Eyes closed as Norman pulls away slightly, lips still just brushing mine, he says in a voice that's barely above a whisper, "I want you."

I'm typically a dominant person; dominant in relationships, conversations, competitions, pretty much everything. It's been a mostly constant theme with Norman and myself, specifically in the bedroom. I've bottomed maybe twice before I met Norman, both times swearing never to repeat the experience. I'm sure some therapist would say it's psychologically based, that my unwillingness to switch things up is because of trauma concerning childhood or my parents divorce. I'm sure I'd tell the bastard to shut the fuck up and understand the meaning of preference. I don't bottom.

I don't trust anyone enough to do so.

But there's something in the way Norman's fingers gently caress my skin, the way his body is tensed in restraint, keeping him from pushing me. Something in the gentle request which ghosts over my lips like a promise. Something which not only makes my body and flesh ache for him, but which also causes my heart to burn and swell. Something which makes me trust him.

Which makes me want him in a way I never thought I'd legitimately want anyone.

I don't say anything, just as Norman said nothing to my words before. I don't need to. Taking a sharp intake of breath, I let my hands ghost down his body, feeling the shivers race along his skin. I don't need to say anything, instead answering with a slow upward grind of bare hips against naked flesh above, eliciting a groan from both of us at the raw friction.

The action says what words do not. Words cannot.

Trust. Desire. Lust. Comfort. Consent.

Mutual understanding we've never had before.

A progression neither says but both feel.

Feel more acutely than the push of wet fingers against a spot I swore I'd never let anyone touch again. Feel deeper than the back arching sensation from the brush over a small bundle of nerves I'd never expected to be found with such ease. Three fingers deep and I'm sick of the suspense, the drawn out preparation because, now that I want it, I don't want to wait.

"Norman," I breathe, eyes misted looking up at him, his mouth parted and panting, watching me carefully. In a second I realize that, though this has just reached a new level, we're both too inexperienced, too new to this, for something to be this tender. It's not who we are. And we're nothing if not who we are. "Stop acting like an old woman and fuck me already," I say, voice breathless as my lips curve slightly, a hand coming up slide around the back of his neck. "You know I won't break."

Above me, Norman exhales swiftly, his own mouth curving in a smile as he shoves my legs wider, his fingers dragging from me making it hard to keep back a whimper. "And here I was just trying to be kind," Norman says, leaning down to trail kisses up the side of my neck as he positions himself, the soft nudge against stretched skin making my breath catch.

"You were just beating the hell out of me fifteen minutes ago," I say, eyes closing at the comforting sensations of his lips against the sensitive skin of my neck and the apprehensive tensing of my muscles at the impending invasion. "I dunno if I'd exactly call that kindness."

"Relax," Norman tells me, not continuing our conversation as he attempts to advise me. "Relax, Sean."

"What do you think I'm trying to do?" I snap, opening my eyes to glare halfheartedly at him. "Build a house? It's not exactly easy to ju-" I cut myself off with a chocking gasp, eyes slamming closed to press hard together as Norman suddenly thrusts into me, with no warning and catching me completely off guard. It's something I wasn't expecting and which has me panting and gasping, the feeling both painful and amazing. Though mostly painful right now. "Fuck!"

"I told you to relax," Norman says, the grin audible in his voice as he doesn't move, giving me time to adjust to the incredibly sudden invasion to my body. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck. I would snap at him that he has no idea what this feels like and to shut his goddamn mouth but it would be hollow, considering that, yeah, he knows exactly what this feels like. Knows what it feels like three or four times a week actually. Gritting my teeth and willing my body to adjust are about the only things I can do.

"Move," I grind out, not caring that my body might not be entirely prepared for any movement as of yet. Not caring that I'm being hasty, that I should wait. I've already said I'm not exactly a patient person. Especially when I want something. And, despite the sharp and slow dragging pain caused from him drawing out and slowly pushing back in, I still want this.

And that is terrifying and thrilling all in one.

In an effort to distract me from the painful drags against abused and unfamiliar flesh, Norman's lips gently press over mine, tongue dragging deliciously along my mouth and getting my head to tilt in response, searching for more of that contact and taste. It's distracting enough that he can establish a rhythm, create a steady pace, slowly transform that painful burn to a pleasured drag, the sensation shifting from uncomfortable to wanted.

Breaking lip contact, we're both panting, breaths hot and mixing between parted lips as his rocking pace quickens, my own hips moving in sync, the pleasure outweighing the pain. It's hot, the burning heat he carries with him constantly intensified as he moves in me, spreading fire over and through every part of my body, making my toes curl and lungs heave.

"Fuck, you're amazing," Norman grinds out, face buried in the junction of my neck and shoulder, hands firmly on my hips as he moves with me, my own hands clenched against his broad back, nails digging small crescents. "So fucking amazing, Sean," Norman rasps again, teeth dragging slightly against my skin and I turn my head to the side, exposing more skin to his mouth. His fucking sinful mouth.

"Norman," I manage, voice catching at another thrust, the feeling sending a shot of golden sensation darting up my spine and over my skin. I can't say anything, the words somehow dammed at the back of my throat, backing up to break out later, spilling in a jumble on nonsense. Gasping pants and moans replace speech as he continuously moves, my body and racing heart wanting more with every thrust and drag. "God, more," I rasp out, voice dry and hoarse.

I'm answered immediately but a sudden hard and deep thrust which has me gasping, arching in a way I didn't think my back would ever bend, mouth wide. "Oh fuck." That spot, found before by his fingers, the spot that I'd never thought would be found in all its elusive glory sends shock waves, pushing any remnant of sense and reality out of my mind.

I want. I want I want I want.

A moan, long and keening, is all that drops from my mouth, mind turned to mush and oh fuck this is amazing and please please please don't stop fuck. I can't stop moaning, writhing, arching almost like a whore as I'm slammed into repeatedly, fast and hard, the loud dragging breaths from Norman pounding against my eardrums. More. More of this. More of everything. I've never wanted anything so much in my life and I don't even know what it is. I just want it. I need it.

A high pitched moan, fingers clawing as I pull him to me, the constant stimulation almost too much, burning me, tearing me almost in half and all I want is more. Break me, burn me, God, destroy me as long as you don't stop. Limbs and bodies in frantic movement, pace and rhythm lost in this, all previous gentle touch abandoned to the wild passion that this has become.

I don't know if I'm close. I can't tell, can't piece together any two fragments of information to even know if my eyes are open or closed.

And then it hits. Like being slammed off a cliff and falling into oblivion I'm screaming, voice hoarse and dry, throat burning with the intensity of my orgasm as I'm swallowed in black.

Minutes, seconds, or hours later my eyes open, breathing still heavy and dragging, skin tingling pleasantly as my limbs feel like lead. God, I've never felt that fantastic. Swallowing and wincing slightly at the dry grate against my throat, I blink and try to find Norman's face, located somewhere around my shoulder. Still lying on top of me, though slightly to the side so as not to crush me, Norman is panting heavily, body slick with a sheen of sweat, making his trembling skin glow. Swallowing again, I raise a heavy hand, dragging it up Norman's side to rub gently at his back, just between his shoulder blades.

"You alive?" I ask, my voice hoarse and raw, soft in its overuse. Norman's breath puffs against my heated skin as the trembling in his body gradually subsides.

"Mmmmmm," Norman murmurs in response, nuzzling deeper into my skin. "I think so." I feel his lips brush against the side of my neck in a brief kiss before he pulls back slightly, shifting so he slides next to me, removing the weight on my body. The feel of him leaving me has me grimacing, but it's forgotten as his arms wrap around me. Smiling, I hum gently as we curl around each other, skin cooling now we've stopped vigorously fucking. If you can even call it fucking anymore. I don't think fucking someone has that degree of tenderness and intimacy.

"We should shower," I mumble, face buried in his hair as his face is pressed, nuzzled against my neck and collarbone. Norman hums in agreement but makes no move to get up, fingers softly tracing patterns over warm skin. "Or get off your couch at least," I say, inhaling the scent of his hair, the smell of shampoo finally detectable now that it no longer reeks of smoke. Norman hums again. Tapping him in what, were we both not near comatose, would have been a light slap, I sigh.

I know we should get up. Move. We're in the open, on the couch in direct view of the door should someone open it. And that's a position I'd rather not be in. Even if it is extremely comfortable having Norman curled up against me enjoying the aftershocks of fantastic sex.

"Hey Sean," Norman says after a moment, his voice vibrating against my skin and sending a pleasant shiver towards my stomach. I hum to show I'm listening. "I'm not frustrated anymore."

I'd hit him right now. I'd hit him, but at the same time, all I want to do is pull him closer and never let go.

"I told you," I mumble, face still pressed against his dark hair. "It only takes two weeks to get over an addiction." Norman humphs, back jerking against my arms. "Or three if it's you." The smile gently pulling at my lips is nothing but genuine.

* * *

A/N: You have no idea how long this goddamn thing took to write. No. Idea. The boys would not cooperate and I kept hitting dead ends. Anyway, yeah, so their relationship is evolving... or I'm trying to make it seem that way. Hope it's working *shuffles* Hope you enjoyed it! And no, Sean will not suddenly and magically become bottom!Sean. I just wanted to switch things up. Which they probably will do in the future, but keep things simple for a while.


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